


Tribute

by Menirva



Series: Tribute Verse [1]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: A bit dark and twisted, But a little fluffy?, Daddykink, Dubious Consent, M/M, Spanking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barsad comes to Gotham early to scout for his brother and sister. There he finds an angry little soul in need of care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribute

It is that instant in which he feels tiny, sharp teeth sink into the flesh of his forearm, the moment he hears the enraged howl come out as a gurgle, with hot blood bubbling from the deep bite, that he knows that the ball of rage he carries in his arms must be his.  
  
The gunshots have drawn him in. He needed to be certain that they were not meant for him, that he was not followed. Instead, he has walked into a senseless battle; a child crouching over his bleeding-out father. It is an image he has seen more than once, an image he has caused more than once, because for them he has killed without mercy and without care for those left behind, though never without reason.  
  
It is second nature to draw his hidden gun when they turn towards him. Clean, quick shots; in Gotham, it is more than any man deserves. He doesn't finish the boy. There's no reason. He supposes it might be a kindness to end him there beside his father, but he has never considered himself to be a kind man, just an honest one.  He decides to scoop him up instead, to deposit him outside of the stink of death and blood, or at least as close as one can get in this rotting city.  
  
Perhaps it is loneliness that causes it. He is only now twenty, young and old in his heart, with more blood on his hands than most twice his number, only now finding his place with them and now eight years he will be without them. Eight years he will be their eyes, their ears, their scout, and it has not yet been a week. When the boy screams and fights in his hold, Barsad is pleased. He knows that others would see the thing in his arms as broken beyond repair, something to be cast aside as useless, never standing a chance.  
  
Barsad sees differently. He sees a fierce fire. He sees malleability. He sees a tribute that he can mold in honor of them. He knows how to see these things because once another saw these same attributes in him, raised him from a hell and made him into a monument in their sister's honor, one to serve them, one to fight beside them and give them everything he has in his soul.  
  
He takes the boy home. Home is not really home, and the bundle in his arms fights him the entire journey, screaming for his papa when Barsad finally deposits him onto the off-yellow armchair in a sparse apartment.  
  
"You father is dead,"he tells him, not cruelly, but there is no softening such a blow, so there is no point in trying. He is not a kind man. "You will stay here. I will comfort you. You need only to come to me for it."  
  
He can be soft, if it is needed, but not yet, not without something first given in return. When the boy has given himself over to him, then he can be shown tenderness, then he can be molded. Barsad knows he will one day be stunning; gold found in squalor, a lightning storm that can scorch the Earth that will be under only their control.  
   
It takes two days.  
  
Two days the ball of rage stays cocooned in a ratty brown blanket, one of only two in the apartment, the other a thick, warm quilt on his bed. He stays perched on the chair. He does not speak. He does not eat.  
  
Barsad is patient.  
  
He has been more patient for much less valuable things. It is no burden. He sets a meal on the table each morning, and when it is not eaten in his presence, he takes it away when he goes out to scout, bolting the door behind him. The process is repeated before he slides into bed each night, and the meals are not touched.  
  
It is cold. They are in the dead of Gotham's long winter, and the apartment is freezing. Barsad can see blue lips peeking out from the cocoon when he passes it, when he sits on the only other chair and carefully cleans his guns, studies plans. Not a peep.  
  
He leaves a window open in the kitchen.  
  
He has done crueler things to coax men into obedience. He will not go further, though. Long ago he was taught that innocence is to be cherished. If there is any left in this one, it will be left untarnished by him, and it will in turn make the boy an even greater tribute to them.  
  
Two days and the boy is hungry, his voracious appetite is for more than just food. Two days and he bends.  
  
Barsad can hear him when he slides into bed, the soft pad of little bare feet on wooden floors. He turns on his lamp. The door has been open each night for him, and now he stands in the doorframe, blanket still around him, his instinctive last barrier against something he does not yet understand, a fire that will soon consume him.  
  
Barsad lifts the blanket back in invitation and waits. He has waited longer for much less valuable things; he has waited two days, a few minutes more is nothing.  
  
He is so hungry, so cold. His feet and knees are still sticky with the blood of his father. His boy first bends and then he breaks.  
  
When he comes to the bed, it is with a sob, with him nearly flinging himself into Barsad's arms.  
  
Now he can be gentle. Now he knows the angry soul he holds in his arms belongs to him until his dying breath. He knows because it was and always will be the same for him.  
  
He soothes, cradles, rocks, whatever his little hungry soul needs. He coaxes him to take little sips of water, tiny bites of crackers that Barsad has left by his bed, knowing. His boy takes it all, soaks in the affections, pops his mouth open like a baby bird for each swallow.  
  
Barsad is enamored. He has never been in the position to soothe away tears, though he has seen many in his life, has shed his own and been the cause of them in plenty of others. He feels a possessive wave wash over his soul as he wipes dirt and tears away from hunger-sharpened cheeks and wet brown eyes.  
  
This is his.  
  
This is theirs.  
  
This feeling must be what his brother and sister felt when they claimed him, and he did not know it could fill him so.  
  
"What is your name, little one?" he asks him as he settles him into a hot bath to warm his bones, to wash away the old blood.  
  
"Robin," it comes out as a little hiccup with fresh tears. He would not let Barsad put him into the tub alone, and so he has him against his chest. The steam rises around them, encloses them and separates them from the world. Now it is just the two of them, and it will be for many years.  
  
"Robin?" It is a good fit.  
  
When he receives a little nod, he places a kiss to his forehead. "You will be my little bird. I will teach you to be strong," he promises.  
  
He is ten; Barsad is surprised. He thought him younger, so scrawny and small for his age, but he is smart, there is fierce cunning in his eyes even beneath all of the grief and simmering rage that Barsad can see.  
  
When he settles them back into the bed, Robin's arms cling tightly to him. He falls asleep with his sweet breath brushing across Barsad's cheek. Barsad holds him; he does not let go.  
  
He does not know how to be a parent, but he does know how to train, to form men into an army for his brother. He finds that this is strikingly similar, but with more hugs.  
  
His Robin is not sheltered from the truth of his city, the rotten pillars and vile filth. Barsad teaches him each day why it must fall, that it is the reason his father was taken, why his mother was felled, as well. It is the truth, and he needs to hear it. He sees it sink into his mind, a bitter pill that Barsad strokes his throat and helps him swallow with the promise that one day things will be made right, that one day they will restore balance.  
  
It is no easy thing to raise a being of rage, one that cannot control it himself, but must be taught to let Barsad do it for him so that he can guide his little bird as needed. He is still so very hungry. He clings to Barsad, and Barsad allows it perhaps more than he should. Each night, he feels his Robin's arms wrap tightly around his neck. Tiny hands and limbs stretch, gain strength as he grows, and each night Barsad still wakes with nail imprints in his back from his Robin's desperate clutching.  
  
When he sleeps, when Barsad lets them have moments of being tender, he looks angelic, long lashes and dark curls framing his face. Barsad strokes them as he watches Robin practice disassembling and reassembling each firearm he is given to learn. When lessons are over, he lets him curl into his lap on the same old yellow chair he perched on years ago.  
  
Robin is ornery, angry; nearly perfect. Barsad carefully prunes away habits that are undesired, nurtures others and does not force ones that were never there to begin with. They are not the characteristics most would choose a child to grow into, but he is growing up in their visage and Barsad is proud. He cannot imagine how he would have survived the vileness of Gotham without this little bird to keep him company.  
  
Robin is seventeen and pulling away now, the wiles of youth telling him he should rebel when Barsad will never allow it. Some things are let go; youthful anger is not the same as the low, simmering rage in Robin's bones, and Barsad will not reward him for it even though it is clear that that is what his little acts desire. He is always thirsty for attention now, even when Barsad's leaves him for only a moment. He is growing fast, and his needs are growing with him.  
  
It escalates, as things must do until they reach a boiling point. Robin's tongue is sharp; Barsad has done nothing to curb it against others, but he knows that with him he must be respectful with it. Now, he tries to use it as a weapon.  
  
"You're not my fucking dad, Barsad! I don't have to do a damn thing you tell me!" It's shouted in a rage, his fists clenched and his body language begging Barsad to strike him, to take him in hand, to prove to him that he is wanted.  
  
Barsad shoves him to the wall. What started out as a morning training has become something more, tension and anger thick in the air.  
  
"I have cared for you for years, nurtured you, trained you." The words are a growl in his throat, a rare anger in him that his Robin would ever dare say he did not belong to him.  
  
He surrounds him, brackets his arms around his boy's and presses their foreheads together, his tone quiet, filled with fierce possession. "I am more your father than any other, little bird. You are mine, every bit of you, and you would do well to remember it lest you wish me to teach you."  
  
"You're not. You're not my dad," Robin repeats, spitting it out bitterly.  
  
Fiery eyes flash up at him; behind the flames is a deep, desperate, longing.  
  
Yes. That is exactly what his little bird wants him to teach. It is what Robin wants him to take, what he needs.  
  
He has felt Robin's fumbling attempts to pleasure himself under the blanket at night, the stifled moans from bitten lips. He never pulls out of Barsad's arms for it, only turns to try to make it a private thing, a quick, messy orgasm spilled out between frantic fingers that leaves him breathing staccato breaths which Barsad can feel with his hands pressed against his chest. He wonders what things his Robin thinks of while he touches himself, whether it is of pretty stars in the movies Barsad occasionally takes him to see, or if it is of the brush of beard against the back of his neck, of strong arms that hold him tight.  
  
He highly suspects that it is the latter.  
  
He has thought about those soft brown eyes lidded with pleasure and those dark locks curled between his fingers. It has been many years since he has taken care of such desires beyond his own hands in the shower. Even knowing his brother and sister would not slight him for wanting a warm body, he has found none in Gotham appealing. He is not blind to Robin's growing need, the desperate ache in his boy. Perhaps two lessons can be learned today.  
  
He makes a decision. "I feel that I have been too lenient on you, Robin. Perhaps I need to be more firm, to show you that I am everything you need."  
  
Barsad flips him against the wall, crushing his chest into the faded floral print, his cheek pressed against a daffodil. It's a strong pin and Robin struggles, yells out and tries to shove back against him. He would be able to break it if Barsad did not know his body so well. With his training, he would be able to conquer men twice his size, and one day he will, but for now he is here against the wall and Barsad needs him to mind him.  
  
The first swat against his ass is met with a yelp. Barsad does not spank, has not beyond a few swats when Robin was still little. He has felt little reason for it, and now, when he smacks the flat of his palm against the curve of Robin's jeans, it is met with shock. For once, his tongue is tamed.  
  
Not for long, though. He keeps his forearm braced against his back as he delivers several more sharp raps, enough to make his palm sting and for Robin to find his tongue again, to whine uncertainly. Robin is used to pain from training, the soreness of muscles, even the slam of a fist when he cannot put his guard up, for he cannot be gentle during training. He explained it to him the time he set his first broken nose, wiped away a confused tear or two, because training was finished and he could be soft.  
  
   
 _“The world is cruel, harsh; cold. My training must reflect this or you will not be ready for it, and you are for too precious for me to let it fell you.”_  
   
  
The words were a balm, and now his Robin takes his knocks as the show of love that they are. He never cries for them. He wears them with pride and sits quietly after each session for Barsad to clean them, lays his head out in his lap for the quiet comfort he knows Barsad will give if he only asks. Even now his lip is split and swollen; there is a slowly healing cut across the bridge of his nose.  
  
But this is different, an intimate sort of pain that makes his bottom wiggle, and his breathing goes shallow in mortification that he can be made to feel so small again, more seven than his seventeen years.  
  
"You are so desperate for me to make you mind me, little bird." He pauses mid-swing, cups his palm and rubs over the steady heat rising from reddening cheeks, feeling it even through his clothing. "You will take these now and be good for them. Perhaps tomorrow, when you feel the sting in your ass, you will remember to keep the sharpness out of your tongue."  
  
When Robin's mouth opens to retort, he smacks again, and whatever was on his tongue tapers off into a low cry. He does not let him get a word in; each time it seems like he might speak, he slaps down harder until the words leave him again, until Barsad can see the tremble that runs through his boy's knees as he tries to stand.  
  
He stops finally when his boy sniffles. He squeezes roughly over the sore flesh beneath his hand, and Robin's knees wobble, he chokes back a cry.  
  
"Are you ready to be a good boy for me?"  
  
"Y-yes, Barsad." It's stuttered out, sounding miserable and small, all of his teenage gruff smacked clean out of him. It's only a temporary thing, however, and Barsad needs more from him before the lesson is done.  
  
He turns him back around and strokes his fingers across his cheek. After the hard actions, Robin curves into the gentle touch, craving it.  
  
"Robin." He kisses his forehead, the skin there flushed and hot against his lips. When he puts a hand on his slender hip, he's not surprised to see the faint bulge in his jeans. Punishment or not, this is still everything his boy craves; attention, affection, discipline. "You know how to be a good boy for me."  
  
He's given a small, sullen nod.  
  
"And you want to be a good boy for me, don't you?" He rubs his hands against Robin’s hips, feeling the cut of his hipbones beneath his clothing. His baby bird has grown and lost all of his baby fat, leaving behind a lean creature that is always hungry for nourishment, no matter how much he might feed him.  
  
He squeezes into his hips when he's not answered, and it gets a gasp, a wriggle, confusion and mortification over how his body is so clearly responding to being pinned to the wall, to the endorphins rushing through him from his smacked rosy cheeks, from Barsad being so close and touching him.  
  
There is no need to hide his intentions. He is always honest with his Robin. His hand blazes a trail from his hip to his crotch, cupping a possessive hand over his boy's cock, feeling it surge beneath the denim. Robin shudders, his head dropping back, and the sound he makes is beautifully dazed.  
  
Barsad knows that now is the time for Robin to sing for him. For him to understand and accept something that is new between them, and yet something that has been an unspoken truth all along.  
  
He drops down to the floor and sits, takes him along with him and settles him in his lap facing him, forces his slender legs apart to splay over his thighs so that his Robin cannot hide his body. He rubs his thumb over the growing bulge, and his boy drops his head back to hit the wall gracelessly, his eyes clenching shut tightly as new sensations skitter across his skin.  
  
"Eyes open." It's an order, and it is obeyed with a pretty flutter to his lashes.  
  
He uses his other hand to pet along Robin's skin, to slide his hand under his shirt and stroke his chest, his sides, feeling the tremble and dip of his belly.  
  
 “Do you want me to stop?” Barsad watches him, gives him the opportunity to voice his no, even knowing it will not be taken. Robin always wants anything and everything he will give.  
  
 Robin jerks his head no, and Barsad presses closer, feels Robin’s legs tighten like a vice around his sides. He peppers his cheeks with kisses in reward and rubs his smooth cheek with his own stubble. His boy sighs, nearly melts against the wall at such favor.  
  
“Let me see you.” He drops his voice low, lets its rasp curl into his boy’s ear and make him shiver as Robin paws at his pants, and nearly snaps the zipper in his eager fumbling. When he helps him guide his pants down around his knees, Barsad can’t help but chuckle against his ear at how hard his boy is, how he nearly pops up out of his briefs, demanding attention.  
  
He’s nicely grown and shaped. He doesn’t understand the American obsession with cutting a cock, but he likes how it makes his boy look that much more red and eager for him. He will give him what he yearns for, and teach him this new lesson to shape him, to let a final piece of their puzzle click into being.  
  
His touches are as light as can be at first, just enough to let him adjust to such a new thing as another’s touch. He watches with wide eyes and shaky breaths as Barsad strokes over his balls, cups and weighs them in his hand, asks him if he likes it as a low tease.  
  
When a softly spoken 'yes' reaches his ears, he takes Robin's cock into his hand, makes a noise of disapproval when his eyes try to drift shut. They fly open at the sound. It is the perfect time to praise him and to teach him the new lesson.  
  
“That’s daddy's good little boy," he nearly coos it, using the same tone he has used to soothe his boy whenever he is upset, whenever he needs to be held.  
  
Robin’s eyes flare, and Barsad feels his cock twitch with excitement in his hand at the endearment.  
  
"N-no!" He realizes the lesson and rebels from it. He has given so many things to Barsad, and still there is the one piece of his old life that he adheres to; an old memory that Barsad will replace, and Robin thinks he cannot let go of it.  
  
"Shh," he soothes with a hand on his belly, the shirt creased and tucked up now to his chest. His other hand plays with him, slow pulls that sweep up the length of his cock and make his thighs shake against his sides. "I have you, my little bird; I always have you."  
  
It is the same promise he gives whenever Robin needs to hear it, which is so often, so very often, and it affects him as it always does, makes him try to wiggle closer even in their position, conditioned now to want to be as close to Barsad as possible when Barsad is reaffirming the ownership that he wants placed over him. For Robin wants to be owned; it is only this word, this title and the memories behind it, that he does not want to give up.  
  
If he was kind, he would let him keep them.  
  
"Who is my good boy?" he asks instead, gently coaxing Robin onto the proper path, one that will guide him to what he needs.  
  
"I-I am." It's said softly, shyly, between eager pants for breath, quick jerky rolls of his hips that Barsad allows. Shyness is not something he has seen in Robin in many years and he finds it to be sweet.  
  
"You are, you are my good boy." He smiles just slightly at the relief in Robin's eyes over that assurance even after he has told him no, thinking it has been let go, forgotten. "Does my boy want to come for me?"  
  
The answer is, of course, a yes, moaned out wantonly, Robin's body relaxing, his eyes lowering as he feels all of the pleasure rippling through his body in waves.  
  
"Do you know what you need to do, Robin?"  
  
He shakes his head, eyes questioning. When he is being good, he always looks to Barsad for guidance, to be led, and Barsad keeps him from straying too far.  
  
There is the barest trace of a smirk on his lips; even as smart as his Robin is, he has fallen into a trap.  
  
"Ask your daddy to let you come."  
  
Robin's lidded eyes widen. He shakes his head desperately, a soft litany of pleading falling from his lips. "Not that, not that; please, not that."  
  
Barsad is not a kind man.  
  
He strokes and squeezes at Robin's straining erection until his boy is so close, on a hair trigger, unsurprising for his age, his experience, but Barsad knows how and when to pull a trigger and when to simply wait. He is always willing to wait for his Robin.  
  
He keeps him primed, just on his edge and leaking out onto his fingers; he makes him watch him lick off his fingertips. He is so loud, crying out for each change in touch, whimpering his need. When he is so desperate he tries to reach for himself, Barsad smacks his fingers away.  
  
"No. Touch again and I will stop," he promises him, and he means it. He would leave his boy aching and on edge for hours if it means teaching him this lesson.  
  
"Please!" It's a ragged sob, and Barsad rubs his hands against his sides to ease it, but only for a moment. His boy is stubborn and strong. He needs the push or he will never give in. He coils his fingers around his cock again and jacks him mercilessly, right back to his edge, releasing his fingers when he's on the cusp. It makes Robin bite down sharply into his bottom lip. His boy is almost ready to scream with frustration and want.  
  
Again and again, he builds; rough and quick, slow and gentle, until Robin is wrecked under his touch, until he has lost all coherency and his pupils are blown wide with need. His sweat dripping from his body slicks his skin and Barsad has to kiss his cheek he looks so beautiful with his locks plastered to his temples, with his face flushed and red.  
  
"Go on, my little bird." He knows it must be now, he's too close, been driven too far, and now he just needs one little push. "Say it, tell daddy what you need and he will give it to you. You're my good boy, aren't you? Just ask; just ask like a good boy should."  
  
He holds his hand against his belly, feels the trembling under his skin when his Robin breaks for him like he always does, always just how Barsad designs it so he can build him back up into something more beautiful, something stronger, something for them.  
  
"Please, _please, daddy._ " He chokes out the words, his face red with a shame that Barsad will train out of it soon enough. "PLEASE let me come!"  
  
When Barsad lets him tip, it tears through Robin like an earthquake. He screams himself hoarse for it, and Barsad feels his scorching seed shooting out from beneath his knuckles, sees how his boy's body arches and strains beautifully as he pumps his shaft and milks him dry. There are little ragged pants that leave his chest, minute twitches of his hips, but there is only one word on his little bird's lips, and it is like a song, a fervent prayer as he reaches up with trembling limbs to cling to him through his bliss.  
  
 _"Daddy, daddy."_

**Author's Note:**

> http://relevantlyirreverent.tumblr.com/


End file.
